


Admiration

by Evesi



Category: Assassin's Creed
Genre: Assassin's Creed III, Charles Lee is a fanboy, Kink Meme, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-07
Updated: 2013-01-07
Packaged: 2017-11-24 00:52:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,640
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/628416
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Evesi/pseuds/Evesi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>While it's usually impolite to stare, it seems almost inappropriate not to do so when it involves one Haytham Kenway undressing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Admiration

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the following prompt on the AssCreed kink meme: _In one of the Haytham sequences, him and his Templar buddies ambush some redcoats escorting Native prisoners and disguise themselves as redcoats. Which means they all changed clothes. And Haytham has a VERY nice body. And the others notice that while they are changing. They start staring, and Haytham's reaction to all this attention is up to the filler._

It was hot and muggy, the air humid even after the rain. Their boots squelched along the dirt road as they walked, lugging away the bodies of the dead but ever careful to not muddy the uniforms they’d worked so hard to procure. Of course, mud was not the only matter to be dealt with; there was the potential for blood stains--something far more difficult to explain away while undercover. By the time the group had finished depositing the bodies behind a barn, several of the uniforms were already unusable because of the red blossoming across their fronts.

That said, one could easily tell which ones had been slain by the Grand Master: the wounds were small and neat, compared to the large, gaping messes created by the swords of their party members. It caused admiration to swell within Charles’ chest as they pulled the uniforms off of their former owners.

Indeed, this was the work of a man capable of bearing such a deadly blade.

Perhaps the awe was evident on his face as Hickey proceeded to snicker to his right, and while none of the other men showed any sign of paying him any heed, Charles could feel his cheeks color and gave the breeches he was attempting to remove an especially harsh tug. A smug smile still danced upon that face as Hickey walked off, clothing bundled in his arms, and it was only after the man had turned a corner that Charles ceased to bristle, his mood lightening almost immediately now that he was alone in the company of Haytham.

“We wait until the others can return to watch over the convoy,” he said, gaze fixed rather decidedly on the native women still bound to the driver’s seat of the cart. The expression Charles saw there on his handsome face was different from any he’d witnessed in the past--a look in his eyes that he couldn’t _quite_ pinpoint but still found worrisome. An unpleasant feeling clutched at his chest, and he refused to call it jealousy.

“Of course, sir.”

Like a dog held at bay by the word of its master, Charles did nothing but wait, even if his skin itched to leave the presence of the exotic woman several feet away, to spirit Haytham away with him. The minutes dragged, and the air was too hot; he was irritable standing here in his damp clothing. While the other members of their party had not been gone all _that_ long, he felt that an eternity had passed when John finally reappeared, quickly followed by William, Benjamin, and, unfortunately, Hickey, who, much to Charles’ annoyance, was still sneering at him.

Scowling, he followed after Haytham, eyes narrowed into angry slits until they rounded a corner and concealed themselves in a small, fenced-off area behind a house. All alone with the Grand Master, Charles’ attention swung back to Haytham immediately, just in time to see him remove his hat and set it down gently on a barrel. The cloak went next, and it would have been a fool’s errand to convince anyone that he was not staring openly at his mentor, noting the broadness of Haytham’s shoulders.

With a jerky movement, his hands settled at his own collar, working on the cravat tied there, but again, his gaze shifted back to his mentor’s form once more. Haytham was shrugging off his frock coat now, his Assassin bracer set carefully beside his hat; he moved with an easy grace, a confidence that could only be found in an individual who thought well of his own body--shameless and proud. As for himself, Charles had managed to rid himself of his neck piece but was still struggling to get out of his coat, damp and clinging as it was to his frame, and he hurried to set it on top of a crate, unwilling to miss out on the first slice of skin Haytham revealed.

In paying so much attention to him stripping, Charles had quite forgotten that the man he was watching had very impressive observational skills of his own. Waistcoat gone, that white shirt of his had already revealed powerful shoulders when Haytham’s movements ceased quite suddenly. “Charles?” he asked, head canted slightly to the side. “There’s no time to waste.”

“My apologies, sir. It is the damp,” he replied lamely, peeling off his waistcoat and then tugging at a sleeve pointedly, as if it would prove to be an ample excuse. Haytham made a soft sound of agreement before focusing his attention ahead of him again; as he’d turned back around, though, Charles could have sworn he saw the faint twist of the lips--a _smile_.

“It does have the tendency to make one’s dress cling. Undressing is a certain chore in such circumstances,” Haytham said, finally removing his shirt and setting it atop his coat. His back flexed as he stretched, and Charles couldn’t tear his eyes away; his hands, suddenly dumb and uncooperative, fumbled at his own shirt. Haytham’s body was a long, lean line before him--beautifully muscled but not over-built, with long legs that seemed even longer now that they weren’t hidden away by that coat of his.

Charles wondered: how would it feel to be pressed flush against that powerful frame? To touch it? To play with it?

“If we had the time, I would have preferred to air out the uniforms as well.” The Grand Master’s hands went toward his waist, fingertips dragging lightly against his skin, and Charles could only assume he was starting to work on the ties of his breeches. (What would that feel like, he wondered, if it had been _his_ hands sliding just above the hem of his clothes.) Of their own accord, his eyes swept over Haytham’s back, all the while remaining desperate to see his _front_. While he himself was fit, Charles was a military man, and he had the body to reflect it; the individual who stood before him now though...

 _That_ was the body of a man who treated himself as a weapon. Deadly efficiency was evident in even the most minute of gestures, and there was nothing to suggest that Haytham was not in control of every which way that his body moved and behaved. There were scars, of course, but they were all faint--nothing more than little reminders of battles long forgotten. Charles couldn’t think of such things as imperfections; in a way, he thought it made Haytham even more handsome. 

Drawstring apparently undone, Haytham’s breeches sat a little more loosely at his waist, exposing the upper curve of his hipbones if Charles leaned a little further to one side. Haytham bent at the waist then, providing him with a perfect view of the curve of his arse, toned like the rest of him. Dropping himself rather heavily on the crates behind him, Charles sought to mimic Haytham’s actions, if only because he was too distracted to undress on his own without some prompting. As his mentor loosened the ties of one boot and then the other, he pulled his own off, cursing quietly as his inattention caused him to smear mud all over his hand.

A soft chuckle caused Charles to jerk his head back up, only to find Haytham elegantly perched on a crate opposite of him. “Careful,” he chided gently. “We cannot afford to soil these uniforms any more than they already are.”

“It was a mistake, sir. My attentions were--”

“Elsewhere.”

“It won’t happen again, Master Kenway,” he muttered, most furious with himself for seeming so out of sorts and unreliable before this man--this individual whom he sought only approval from. Haytham, for his part, seemed unbothered, merely shrugging his shoulders--a movement that easily caught Charles’ attention now that he could see his front: the delicate curve of his collarbones, the sculpted musculature of his chest and abdomen, and the dip of his hip bones disappearing beneath his breeches.

As if to brush away the remnants of the damp, Haytham ran one hand down his arm then swept it down his front, catching briefly on a nipple; it eventually settled low in his lap, carefully folded over his groin. Charles swallowed and forced his gaze to swing upwards, to look his master in the eye. Haytham’s coat was thick, he knew this having handled it several times himself; the rain could not have soaked through it so easily to wet his skin. Charles had seen that smile earlier, but it had come and gone so quickly so as to seem like a trick of the eye--surely the Grand Master was not _teasing_ him. 

The slight and curious lift of Haytham’s eyebrows seemed to suggest that he was becoming deluded, too hopeful for something that would not and could not be.

“This heat and the damp...” His mentor repeated the action he’d just performed, albeit with his other hand and on the other side of his body. Long, elegant fingers eventually settled lightly on his thighs, scrubbed idly against the cloth. “It could drive a man mad under the right circumstances. A gentle push--” Fingertips hooked beneath his waistband, and Charles cursed himself that he was unable to give this reveal his full attention, forced to enjoy it only out of the corner of his eye. “--is all it might take.”

With a little shifting and a little tilting here and there, Haytham removed his breeches, and to Charles’ simultaneous joy and dismay, his mentor was now clothed only in his smallclothes, his stockings, and the red ribbon in his hair. No, he had to remind himself, there was no point--no _real_ purpose--to stripping down any further, but how he’d love for an excuse for Haytham to do so. Charles had hated the rain while it soaked him, but now he’d wished it had done more damage, enough so that he could see what was now hidden by soft, white cotton.

“Your judgement and plan of action today have been nothing but impeccable, sir,” he managed, forcing a smile to his lips. “If the weather has been affecting you, I have not been able to notice.”

“You are quick to flatter, Charles.”

“I speak only the truth.”

Haytham gave him another one of those fleeting smiles and slight nod. Was he pleased? Amused? Charles wasn’t entirely sure as he wiped the mud off his hand with his sash and then shucked off his breeches. He lacked the finesse with which Haytham had rid himself of his, but, at the very least, he didn’t dirty them on the muddied ground below.

It was with a heavy heart that he then turned his attention to the red uniform he’d brought with him. Charles had never thought fondly of the thing, even when faced with his own, but right here and right now, donning it meant that _Haytham_ , too, would be dressing again as well. It was that loss that gave him pause now.

“Disguises are often necessary in our line of work,” his mentor idly commented when he noticed the hesitation; he was already halfway done with pulling on his breeches, apparently uncaring that less than thirty minutes ago another man had been wearing them. “Do not think too hard on the source of them.”

He picked at the fabric and made a slight face at it. Charles knew all too well that this was necessary and that whatever he had to sacrifice for Master Kenway’s cause was worth the trouble, but all the same... “Of course. It is merely a means to an end,” he responded before dipping his head in agreement. “I will keep this in mind.”

“Good man.” Haytham did not bother lacing up his breeches just yet, opting instead to pull on his white boots first. He made quite a show of it, Charles thought, what with all that tugging and pulling, and again, he wondered if his mentor was doing it for _his_ benefit. He was not unappreciative of the sight of those legs, but even so, to test his hopes in such a manner was just a little cruel.

Charles began to redress in silence, turning his back on his mentor when he had pulled on his own boots. He wanted to watch as that beautiful body was once again clothed, wanted to watch as it disappeared beneath fabric of red and white, and _yet_ , he did not have enough faith in himself to not try something foolish as, inch by inch, the man’s skin vanished before his eyes.

Of course, there was also the more pressing matter that he had to attend to: his growing arousal--an unfortunate side-effect of watching Haytham undress and the desire to strip him down all over again. Charles had managed to avoid falling for the teases and taunts (but were they _really_?) thus far, but he was only human; there was only so much flaunting he could take before even he had to resort to hiding his interest.

While the process of disrobing had been slow and almost purposeless, what with his distraction, his hands acted with great speed now, all too eager to turn his attentions elsewhere--to focus on something that wasn’t smooth skin, narrow hips, and lean muscle. Charles trusted his mentor enough to not run his mouth about this matter were he to catch sight of the bulge pressing ever more clearly against the front of his breeches, but to be seen in such a way was mortifying; he did not think he could survive the look of disgust Haytham would surely wear should the discovery be made.

After all, Charles idolized the Grand Master.

Quick to shove the shirt over his head, his hasty movements only slowed when he finished fastening his coat into place, taking some solace in the way it shielded his groin from view, albeit only somewhat. Behind him, Haytham seemed to be dressing in silence, for there was not a sound from his direction save for the soft clink of metal on metal (buckles sliding into place), the gentle rustle of fabric (wrinkles being smoothed out of the coat), and the faint squeak of leather (gloves being donned). Careful footfalls followed, and Charles kept expecting them to stop, body tensing just a little more with each step that they didn’t.

“Do you require any assistance?” Haytham’s voice was a low, velvety purr in his ear--a sound that sent a shiver racing down his spine. Charles could feel his body heat at his back, and he swallowed hard before shaking his head. (But oh, how he wanted to say yes!) Gloved hands pressed at his chest before dipping lower, sliding dangerously close to the arousal he was desperately trying to will away. “Pity.”

And then his mentor was gone--his hands, his warmth, his _presence_.

Charles turned his head in time to see Haytham placing his hat on his head, a faintly amused but otherwise calm expression on his face. He could feel his master’s gaze sweeping over his still form, could feel them travel lower and lower with-- _dare he think it?_ \--growing lust and avarice. “Quickly now, Charles,” Haytham said, his voice slightly clipped. “The summer days are long, but I do not wish for this expedition to last past nightfall.

“I have plans for the evening.”

Hands folded behind his back, the Grand Master’s gaze returned to meet his own. The tilt of his chin was proud, the smile he wore sure, and there was a most curious look in his eyes: the same look Haytham had directed at that native woman earlier. Though he had loathed it before, Charles found that it now caused his breath to catch in his throat and hope to once more light in his chest.

“Of course, sir. Of course.”


End file.
